


Noise

by GravityGarbage



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Almost but not quite overstimulation?, Begging, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Stancest - Freeform, Well teen!grunkle fucking at least, Ye have been warned! There be incest and grunkle fucking ahead!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityGarbage/pseuds/GravityGarbage
Summary: Ford continues to insist that he isn't loud in bed, despite all evidence to the contrary.Stan decides to call his bluff.





	Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've decided to archive my old grunkle sin works here on the off chance Tumblr decides to eat them during the Great Purge. (: Have fun and let me know if you think I undersold the rating or need to add additional tags.
> 
> Extra note: This is the first pwp I ever wrote! :D Only 1760 words? Aw. How cute.

“It’s not _that_ bad.”

Stan’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to give his brother’s back an incredulous look. “Not that-? Ford you sound like a two-dollar whore being fucked on her knees in a filthy back alley somewhere. I didn’t even know real people actually _made_ noises like that in real life.”

Ford huffed, and even if he didn’t turn around Stan could see the tops of his ears were red, probably because of Stanley’s use of the word ‘whore’, or maybe 'fuck’. Stan grinned; it always amazed him how someone could be such a prude out of the sheets, but such a wildcat between them.

“Stanley don’t exaggerate. I’m not _that_ loud.”

At this Stan frowned because, wait, really? 

“Bro,” he said as he sat up from his recline on his bed to face his twin properly. “Bro, c'mon, it’s okay. You don’t hafta lie to me, I was _there_.”

“And so was I.” Stanford finally gave up all pretense of studying to turn and level his brother with a deeply unimpressed look. “And I’m sure I would remember saying and doing all those things you say I did and said, _if_ I’d actually done and said them, but I don’t so, logically, you must be making it up.” 

Point made, he turned back around in his chair and proceeded to completely ignore his brother, consuming himself once more in his studies for real this time.

Stan, meanwhile, gaped at his brother, mouth hanging open like a landed trout. Ford couldn’t be serious. He was so damn _loud_ in bed it was all Stan could do to shut him up so they wouldn’t get caught, and he had the teeth marks on his knuckles and the bite scars on his shoulders to prove it, so how could he possibly not-?

A thought occurred to Stan then, a wonderfully evil, mischievous thought and his jaw snapped shut of its own accord. He knew their dad had an old voice recorder stored in his office somewhere, that he used it to record sales records from the pawn shop in case the cops or the tax collectors came calling.

He _also_ knew that their mother and father would be out all day and most of the night tomorrow, it being Saturday and their mom wanting to visit her sister Matilda who lived all the way on the west side and dragging their dad along with her. No one would be home; it would be the perfect time to…and Ford could be as loud as he wanted…

A smile, or rather a smirk, unfurled across his face as his plan took shape in his mind. It was (un)fortunate in that moment that Ford couldn’t see the look on his twin’s face, for if he had, he may very well have made the executive decision to flee the house for the next twenty-four hours, for fear of what his brother’s devious expression might mean.

But (un)fortunately for Ford, he didn’t see the look on his brother’s face and was thus wholly unprepared to be practically tackled through the wall when he walked into their shared bedroom the next afternoon, home early from his bi-weekly Saturday morning chess club meeting at the school.

Unprepared for the suddenness of Stanley’s attack, unprepared for the strength with which his twin crushed him back against the wall, unprepared to have his startled yelp swallowed by his brother’s eager mouth, already hot and open and moving fervently against his own, unprepared for Stan to grab him by the hips and grind them together shamelessly, unprepared for Stan to already be fully hard and throbbing when his own body was just getting over the shock and beginning to get with the program.

Unprepared, but nowhere near unwilling.

Stan was wild, almost brutal as he systematically took his twin apart on the floor of their room, since neither of them had wanted to waste the time and energy to try and make it to one of their beds. His kisses left Ford’s mouth bright red and swollen, his grip on Ford’s hips was tight enough to leave bruises, and with the way he was single-mindedly sucking and biting mark after mark across Ford’s neck and chest, paying special, considerable attention to his pert nipples until Ford was writhing and keening under his hands with over-stimulation, Ford knew he was bound to look like a Jackson Pollock painting before the night was out. Not that he was anywhere close to complaining.

Stanley fucked him hard and fast, just the way Ford always begged him too, right there on the floor, bending his brother almost in half to keep their mouths sealed together while he did it. 

And as soon as Ford started to moan and babble and scream just like he always did, he thrust two fingers into his brother’s mouth, not to silence him, but to hold his mouth open so all the sounds he made could escape unrestrained, the better to be picked up by the rolling tape recorder currently hidden less than five feet from them in the shadows under Stan’s bed.

The sight of his twin sprawled out beneath him, with his shirt rucked up under his armpits, glasses fogged up and askew on his face, pupils blown wide and eyes glazed over with pleasure, all of him flushed bright pink all the way down to his navel, mouth bruised and stretched wide around Stan’s fingers, panting and mewling and squealing every time Stan hit that spot deep inside him that made him see stars, too gone for words by then, barely managing the last syllable of his brother’s name on the tail end of every exhale (“Lee. _Lee_. Lee!”), the picture he made alone would have been enough to make a saint sin and Stanley was no saint.

He pounded his brother hard and fast and deep, over and over and over until Ford’s voice finally broke around one last scream as he came, crying his twin’s name. There was no way Stan could hold on after that, and he collapsed on top of his brother a few moments later, completely spent.

Stanford not-so-secretly loved the feeling of his brother’s full weight on top of him, crushing him into the mattress (or floor, as the case may be), making it hard to breathe and making him feel as if nothing existed in the world but him and his twin in those few precious minutes before Stan came to his senses and rolled off his brother. Both of them liked to cling after sex, and the feeling of brother all wrapped around him, running his fingers through Ford’s tangled, sweaty hair, pressing light, chaste kisses to the hickey’s on his chest in mute apology was enough to make Ford nearly purr in blissed-out contentment most nights.

But not this time. This time Stan barely spent a handful of seconds recovering his breath before extracting himself from his twin’s arms, rolling off his brother and making Stanford whine in dissatisfied confusion and reach for him. “Stanley wha-? Where are you-?”

He broke off with a gasp of surprise when he was abruptly flipped over onto his stomach, the pants and boxer shorts still twisted around his knees yanked the rest of the way off, and his ass dragged up into the air so that he was balanced awkwardly on his forearms and knees, with Stan spreading his cheeks apart with little fanfare and even littler warning.

“Stan! Stan what are you-?” He gave a ragged cry at the first scorching hot drag of Stan’s tongue over his aching hole, jerking away and then rocking backwards despite himself, too sensitive and at the same time suddenly desperate for it. “Stan! Stan, don- _ah_! Stan not yet are you crazy I can’t- _ahn_! I-I can’t- _uhn_! N-n-not so fast- _ah_!”

His train of thought permanently derailed and exploded into fiery ruin as his twin devoted himself to the task of licking him clean, lapping around his opening and thrusting and twisting inside, stretching his tongue as far in as it could reach until the hyper-stimulation had Ford thrashing and whimpering and sobbing in his brother’s grip.

“Stan-St-! _Uh_ , Lee! L-Lee, don’t-d-don’t…don’t stop, oh God, Lee, _Lee_! Please don’t stop!”

And so it went. Ford lost count of how many times he orgasmed that night, and when he finally collapsed with his brother in one of their beds (who’s it was didn’t even matter at this point), fucked-out and spent, and utterly, deliriously exhausted, he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Which meant it was easy for Stan to sneak out of bed, retrieve the tape from the recorder, and then return the recorder to its proper place, and himself to his own bed before mom and dad ever got home.

He sat on that tape for _weeks_ , waiting for the perfect opportunity, and it finally came nearly a month later, when both their parents were once more out of the house and final exams were coming up and Ford was buried under a pile of textbooks and extra-credit assignments. The timing was perfect, too good for Stanley to ignore.

He retrieved the tape recorder and sauntered casually back into their bedroom, placing it in full view of Stanford, perched innocently on top of one of the many towering stacks of books that consumed his brother’s desk. He pressed the 'play’ button and strode just as casually out of the room, through the apartment, and out the front door just as Ford’s tinny, recorded voice really began to wail. 

He didn’t need to be around for this part, after all, _he_ knew perfectly well how loud his twin got during sex. Besides, the fun part would come later, when he got back home and his brother first clapped eyes on him after hearing himself on that tape. The look on his face would be _priceless_.

And Stan was not disappointed.

Sure, he didn’t get laid for like a month after that, since Ford could hardly be in the same room with him without turning the color of beet-soup, and forget being able to look Stanley in the eye, and sure _Stan_ got bawled out by their dad for somehow, apparently, managing to throw the recorder _out the window_ (which also struck Stan as a bit of an extreme reaction, but damn if he didn’t wish now that he’d been around to see that thing take a swan dive), but he didn’t mind. It had all been so much more than worth it.


End file.
